I don't think that means what you think it means

Shiny happy moments. I sit in the grass. The little ones frolic in a community yard I pretend is my own. For a moment, everything is perfect. It feels easy. Like there's really nothing to worry about. And I believe it. For a moment. And I stand and pretend like I don't have problems with my stomach every Monday. I loath the end of the weekend. When she leaves. And I pretend I have it all goin' my way, then why am I such a fucking mess? It's not a complaint, just lyrics. And it's not a long term issue. But it's here. It's now. And it's where I'm at. I am happy. I am good. But I keep thinking about calling my Mom. And I can't. And I almost wish no one would read this because it would be nice if it made more sense.